


sticky fingers

by weefaol



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Dean to the Rescue, Dirty Talk, Drugged Sam, Dubious Consent, Finger Sucking, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Protective Dean Winchester, Stanford Era, Virgin Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2019-01-04 06:13:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12163128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weefaol/pseuds/weefaol
Summary: Dean hasn't spoken to his brother since he left for Stanford University, two years ago. But, one night, on a case in Cupertino, California, he receives a strange phone call from Sam Winchester. He's in trouble and needs help.Pedal to the metal.





	sticky fingers

Dean Winchester had sticky fingers.

But instead of floating over the trigger pull of a sawed off Ithaca 37, they hovered on a cell phone keypad.

~~~

It wasn’t often Dad sent him on a hunt alone. Especially not ones in Cupertino, California, a stone’s throw away from painful memories. Ones Dean had tried his best to soothe with whiskey and putting bullets through dead things. That hole inside of him. The dull ache of a deep-seated secret.

Viscous, prickly. Pins and needles in his belly pit. Clots and coagulates.

He couldn’t call. He wouldn’t. It was Friday night and he was a good thirty minute drive from Stanford University. Sam was probably out at a movie with some friends. Or getting his dick sucked by some sweet girl who’d been taken in by his honey-brown eyes, his shy dimples, that sugary half-smile. Dean’s stomach turned.

He was probably in the library doing homework. Nerd.

_Bzzz. Bzzz._

Dean startled as the phone buzzed in his hand. Incoming call. It rang twice before he clicked the talk button and brought the receiver to his ear. He paused, listening.

“Dean?”

_Sammy._

His heart fluttered. He hadn’t heard that voice in two years, but he knew it instantly. Intimately.

“Sam…” he hushed. Cleared his throat. “How you doin, kid?”

“Ss’ello, Dean?”

The hairs on Dean’s arms rose with gooseflesh because his voice was different. Slower, somehow. Like warm molasses. Corn syrup thickener.

He furrowed his eyebrows. “Are you drunk?”

There were muffled voices in the background, a loud bang.

“H-help, Dean.” Slurred words. “Need helpp…”

Dean shot up in his seat, started the Impala with a roar, protective mode kicking in. “Tell me where you are.”

More muffled voices, louder now.

“ _Sam_ ,” he urged, forceful. “Where are you?”

“S-Sigma Chi…” he said, his mouth all cottony. “Hurry.”

“Be right there.”

 _Click_.

~~~

Dean dared a cop to try to stop him. He _dared_ to see flashing reds and blues in the rear-view mirror. Because when Sam was in trouble, there was nothing Dean wouldn’t do to get to him. He burned up the I-280, making the twenty minute drive in a solid seven. Gritted his teeth and full-throttled past buxom blondes in Volkswagen Beetles and businessmen in Maybachs, knowing full well that whatever Sam had gotten into, it was serious. He never called Dean out of the blue.

Not anymore.

With white knuckles on the wheel, Dean pulled into the campus at Stanford University, nearly flattening a gaggle of drunk girls stumbling across the pavement. He pulled up alongside a group of jocks with letterman jackets — football douchebags — and rolled down the window.

“Where’s Sigma Chi?”

One of them crushed an empty can of beer in his hand and pointed up the street. “Follow the music, dude.”

Pedal to the metal.

~~~

The frat house was just like every 80s college movie he’d ever seen — toilet paper in the trees, red solo cups on the lawn, doors open, music blaring. A bonafide animal house. Common decency be damned, he drove up onto the side of the lawn and threw the thing in park. Baby would be just fine. In any case, he didn’t give it too much thought — his mind was focused on his other baby, the one he _really_ cared about, and how he was in trouble. How he had to find him _now, before, yesterday_. Forever ago.

He pushed his way through the throng of falling-down-drunk freshmen and into the house. In the living room, there was a huge staircase leading upstairs. He took them two at a time, his stomach sinking. Dean Winchester was no frat boy, but he knew enough about the types of things that happened in upstairs bedrooms at parties.

_Not on my watch._

An unsuspecting bro coming out of the bathroom got a fistful of Dean’s wrath when he was shoved up against the wall, arm bar across the throat.

“Sam Winchester. Where is he?”

The guy’s eyes bulged in fear. He shook his head. “I don’t —”

“Tall, swoopy hair, tan,” said Dean, like a drill sergeant. “ _Where?_ ”

The guy pointed to the closed door at the end of the hall. Dean shoved him down, leaving him to crumple in a heap on the floor. He’ll have bruises the next day, he'd made sure of it. Dean moved down the hall like an assassin, poised to kill anything in his path. Kicked the door open in one fell swoop.

There he was. His little brother. Drugged up and sprawled out on the bed, his jacket halfway tugged off by some jacked-up motherfucker.

_Dead motherfucker._

“ _GET OFF OF HIM!_ ”

Dean strode over and punched the guy in the back of the head, knocking him to the floor. Gave his ugly face a nice kick for good measure. There were hushed _oh, shits_ and _whoas_ from the other frat boys hovering nearby, stunned by the immediacy of Dean’s violence. Dean ignored them, leaning down to clutch Sam’s sweet, sleepy cheeks.

“Sam?” He gave him a little shake. “ _Sam?_ ”

“Whhuhh…” He was responsive, but heavily sedated.

Clutching his little brother, Dean turned, eyes like the devil’s, toward the lingering idiots. “What the fuck did you give him?”

The jocks laughed, exchanging nervous glances with one another. A particularly stupid-looking one decided to flirt with death by opening his mouth. “Come on, man. Not our fault the kid can’t hold his liquor.”

_Wrong answer._

Letting go of Sam for a split-second, Dean reached into the back of his jeans and whipped out his 9mm. He pointed it directly between the jerk-off's eyes, whose face drained to ghost white.

“I’m not gonna ask you again,” said Dean, murderous.

The guy swallowed. "Whoa, we weren’t —“

Dean clicked the safety off. The sound echoed off the walls.

“R-roofies,” he stammered, voice cracking. “Rhohypnol. It was just a joke.”

Dean clenched his jaw, his finger hovering over the trigger. One split-second decision and this jackass would be dead. Point blank shot to the head. His hand shook.

_Not today._

He kept his aim steady as he helped his brother to his feet. Sam leaned heavily on Dean, like an oversized rag doll, as they made their way out of the room and back into the hallway.

But not before Dean clocked the stupid-looking one with the butt of his gun.

~~~

Dean’s hands gripped the steering wheel as he drove back to Cupertino, slow and careful this time. He’d laid Sam out across the back seat of the Impala and was listening to him snooze as the Rhohypnol worked through his system. Dean had the radio off, keeping tabs on Sam’s soft breathing and trying not to think about what might’ve happened if he hadn’t been so close by. If he hadn’t gotten there in time…

Dean swore, if he let himself think about it too much, he would turn the car around and, by morning, there’d be six dead frat boys strung up on the front lawn of Sigma Chi.

Instead, he focused on calming himself down. He’d be of no use to Sam all hopped up on hunter’s rage. He needed a whiskey. Off Exit 20, he pulled into the local gas station for a bottle of Jack Daniels and some chamomile tea and aspirin for Sam. He dumped his purchases in the front seat and removed his leather jacket, laying it over the sleeping Sam like a security blanket. Took a few deep breaths and sat back down in the driver’s seat. He cracked opened the bottle and downed a few swigs.

Just enough fuel to get them back to Cupertino.

~~~

Dean Winchester had sticky fingers.

But instead of being wrapped around some frat boy’s throat, they knuckled white on the wheel of his '67 Chevy.

~~~

It took some work to get Sam, who had somehow gotten even taller in the past couple years, up the stairs and into Dean’s motel room. He guided him gently to the bed, settled him down and tucked his head against the pillow.

Even in his weakened state, Sam latched his long arms around Dean’s neck like he used to do when he was little.

“Dean…” he hummed, hanging onto his brother like a monkey and gazing up at him through hazy eyes. “You came… You _saved_ me.” He tried to pull Dean’s head closer, but his arms were too weak to manage.

Dean’s cheeks grew warm at Sam’s attempt. He could scarcely look into those honey-brown eyes lest he fall straight into them and drown.

“I’m here,” he said, gently pulling Sam’s hands apart and liberating his neck. “You’re okay, Sammy.”

Sam smiled, all dopey-like. It made Dean’s heart ache. Made him realize how much he’d missed him these past two years. Too much. Much more than brothers were allowed.

And more than he was willing to admit.

The funny thing about drugs and alcohol, though, was the simple fact that the truth always seemed to bubble up. Like a blood blister, ripe with sweet, seeping ichor.

Ready to surge and spill over.

~~~

For a good thirty minutes (or a half-bottle of Jack), he watched Sam sleep from the safety of the motel chair, until the tips of his toes were warmed and his head was swimming with relief.

Sam was here. Sam was safe. Sam had called him for help. Just like it had always been. Like nothing had ever changed.

“ _Too far_ …” A soft voice came slurring from the bed. Sam’s head lolled over to face where Dean was nursing the liquor bottle. “Come closer.”

Dean sloshed the spiced whiskey down with a nervous swallow. He slid the chair a few feet towards the bed and sat back down. “Happy?”

Sam, hazy and soft, shook his head shyly against the pillow. “ _Closer,_ Dean. Come here…”

Dean’s face flushed. It was just the whiskey, he swore. That was all. Nothing more. He stared at the ground. “Nah, I’m fine right here. Just sleep it off, Sammy.”

Sam pouted, just like he did when he was four years old and wanted something.

“Don’t do that,” said Dean with a shy laugh.

“Do what?” said Sam, grinning like a bastard.

_The little shit._

Dean sighed and shook his head. “You know what. I’m older now. You can’t just bat your freakin’ eyelashes and get whatever you want. Not anymore.”

Sam frowned in jest. “I can’t?” He broke out into a dopey grin.

Dean let out a puff of laughter. “You bitch…”

Sam giggled, rolling back and forth a little on the mattress. The drugs had made him stoned, stupid, and the cutest fucking thing Dean had ever seen. All safe and warm and, just, _Sam_.

A hot rush of blood flowed thickly through Dean’s body. Made him hard, feeling full and dangerous. He tightened his grip on the whiskey bottle. He’d worked for ten years to push that deep, dark part of himself so far down he barely recognized it. Till it was smothered and smouldering in the pit of his gut.

But the fact that Sam was here, lazing happily and loose on the bed, was enough to start sharpening the edges again.

“Come on,” whined Sam. “I wanna talk. In the dark, like we used to…”

Dean swallowed the lump in his throat. He wondered if Sam had been too young to remember everything that happened during those dark talks. The secrets, confessions, shy touches and not-so-innocent kisses. Sometimes Dean wondered if he’d made it all up in his head. He cleared the rasp in his throat. “Only if you promise to shut up and go to straight to sleep after.”

Sam smiled, “Promise.” He rolled over onto his side to make room.

Dean slid onto the bed, facing his brother. "So,” he said, settling in and trying to find a place to put his hands. He settled on using his arm as a pillow. “What do you wanna talk about?”

Sam blinked twice, gazing at Dean with those golden doe-eyes. “I missed you.”

“You’re stoned,” said Dean, who couldn’t help but smile. He knew his brother was loopy as all hell, but he would be lying if he said those three words didn’t warm the cockles of his achy heart. That the most sincere part of him didn’t want to scoop Sam up in his arms and pull him tight against his chest like they used to do under shared sheets.

They were too old for that now. Much too old.

Sam giggled softly and rolled onto his back. His T-shirt rucked up, exposing the tan skin of his abdomen, taut muscles and healthy hipbones on display.

Dean looked away. He tried to. He really did. But he couldn’t quite get over the fact that Sammy had sure done some growing up in the past two years. And the way his little brother was pawing at the strip of belly flesh with his long fingers was making Dean’s head spin.

_Just the whiskey._

Finally, Dean forced his eyes away, forced his brain to think of something else. Anything else. Back to the reason why Sam was here. The reason why he’d called. His blood ran cold.

“Sam, what were you doing in Sigma Chi?”

The sleepy smile faded from Sam’s face. But the lingering haze of the drugs made him honest. He shrugged, suddenly shy. “There was this… guy. I thought he was cool. He invited me up for a drink.”

“He drugged you, Sam. This guy drugged you so that he and those fuckheads could… could do _god-knows-what_...”

Sam turned his head to face Dean. Looked him right in the eye and whispered, “I’m sorry…” With effort, he lifted his hand and ran his fingertips along Dean’s cheek. “Dean, I’m _sorry_.”

Dean’s heart broke into a million pieces. Trembling, he reached out and squeezed Sam’s hand once before letting it go again. He cleared his throat. “It’s not your fault. I’m glad I was so close by. If I’d been halfway across the country… I don’t know what—“

“They would’ve hurt me,” said Sam in a broken whisper. “They would’ve _taken_ it from me, Dean.”

Dean swallowed the lump in his throat. His pulse quickened. “Taken… taken what?”

The thought of it — Sam’s innocence, his pretty little cherry, ripe for the plucking — made his cock swell, unbidden. Because Sam wasn’t some frat boy’s plaything. He wasn’t theirs or anyone else’s. He belonged to —

“I’ve been saving it.” Sam blinked once, his eyes heavy and hazed. “I need you to know that.”

Dean shivered, blood thrumming in his veins. The monster deep within was unfurling now, the smokey edges solidifying. A strange, sooty fume poisoned him from the inside. He smouldered, charred.

“There are rumours about me,” added Sam, quietly. “’S prolly why those guys did that.”

"What rumours?”

Sam bit his bottom lip. “That I’m - I’m gay or something.”

Dean swallowed, his heart racing. The black smoke was filling in his edges, creeping through his arteries. Consuming him. “Those are just rumours.”

Sam smiled shyly. “They’re not, though.”

Dean felt dizzy, light-headed. He’d drank way too much whiskey. He was starting to hear things. Hear things he’d only ever heard in his fucked up dreams. The ones he desperately wished would still be true when he opened his eyes in the searing morning light.

“What," he grunted, "you like dudes or something?” He was terrified to hear the answer. Even though, deep down, he already knew. He’d known since Sam was eight years old.

“I think, yeah,” said Sam, giggling a little. “I let a guy suck my dick last year.”

A tsunamic rush flooded Dean’s body, turning the smoke to sticky tar. This was fucked up. So fucked up. Because he was jealous. _Jealous_ of the random guy that got to suck his brother off. His stomach churned. He was disgusted and exhilarated and flying high, all at once.

And he couldn’t help himself. He had to ask. Had to _know_.

He breathed, a barely-there flutter on his lips. “What was it like?”

Sam’s eyes blazed. Perhaps Sam had half-expected him to be weirded out by his confession, or to dismiss it entirely. But the truth was, Dean had been wondering about that secret part of himself — the hidden part — for a long time. And, until now, he’d never breathed a word of it to another soul.

“It was good,” said Sam, smiling wistfully as his fingers found the inside of Dean's elbow, dancing along soft skin, “like when a girl does it. But rougher. Less pretty. Less careful.”

Dean’s cock hardened in his jeans. More telling, his heart fluttered. Don't get it wrong, Dean loved women. Loved everything about them — their softness, their comfort, the way their asses looked in low-rise jeans. But he never got _that_ feeling. The feeling like he might die if he didn’t feel their mouth, their lips, their hands on him. That end-of-the-world hunger, that longing, where time stops and your blood magnetizes, pulling you closer and tighter and together…

Not like now. Not like _this_.

Sam was the one with roaches in his blood, but Dean’s head was all fuzzy, strung out on memories of stolen cheek-kisses in backseat Impalas. Of cuddling close under shared motel sheets. Of lingering touches and love-lorn gazes. Of the here and now. And not letting it slip away again.

“I don’t like other guys touching you,” said Dean, low and possessive. He wrapped his fist around the front of Sam’s shirt and pulled him close. “Makes me crazy, Sammy.”

Sam blinked, slow and deliberate. Softened his eyes, let his tongue run along his bottom lip. “Tell me why.”

There was no going back now. Not when Sam was here, right in front of him, and it had been such a long time coming. Dean’s fingertips trembled as they ran along the soft blush of Sam’s cheek, then tightened in his hair, pulling him forward. Pulling him in. He could taste Sam’s sweet breath on his lips.

“Because you’re _mine_.”

He kissed Sam with all the tenderness, all the desperation and urgency he had pushed down for so long. Impossibly long. He curled his fingers through Sam’s soft hair and twisted him closer, breathing him in, sliding his tongue into Sam’s beautiful mouth. He tasted like peppermint and honey. Rose petal, clove cigarettes, bubblegum ice cream.

 _Sammy_.

“ _Dean_...” Sam sank into his brother’s touch. The touch they’d waited lifetimes for, desperate hands clutching at Dean’s chest, vowing to never let go.

It was wrong. On so many levels. Sam was drugged. Sam was drunk. Sam was vulnerable. Sam was his brother, his _little_ brother, for Christ’s sake.

But it couldn’t stop him. It wouldn’t. This iron horse had been gathering speed for years and there was no way on God’s green earth that anyone could stop it from finally going off the rails in a glorious crash and burn.

“Sam, you gotta…” he hushed in a frenzied moment between kisses, foreheads pressed together and thumb sliding over Sam’s wet lips. “You gotta sleep it off. Gotta wait till you’re thinking straight.”

“Don’t boss me around.” Sam pulled Dean’s thumb into his mouth and suckled around the tip like it was his cock. “I want this,” he hummed, moaning around Dean’s thumb. “Always wanted this.”

Dean shivered. “Oh god… you have no idea.” He put his mouth back on Sam’s, let their tongues slide together, licking around wet lips and white teeth. “You have no idea, Sammy.”

Their bodies moved in tandem, slotting together and rutting over clothes like goddamn teenagers. Dean gasped when he felt Sam, his sweet baby brother, fuck his lazy hips up, dragging his swollen cock against Dean’s.

“You like that?” teased Sam, soft, against his lips. He dragged his hips up again, the friction hot and hard against Dean’s own. “It’s all for you.”

“Jesus, Sammy…” With a mouth like that, Dean couldn’t exactly control himself. Not when Sam was lazily rutting against him like he’d been born for this, to slot right into Dean so perfectly. It was too good. Too pure. Too sinful to resist.

With a shaky exhale, Dean tugged the bottom of Sam’s T-shirt up over his chest, running his hand along the smooth flesh of his belly. He fingered at the button on Sam’s jeans before sliding his hand underneath, dipping below the elastic of boxer-briefs until he felt the slippery, wet slick — precious pink cock-head.

“ _God…_ ” Dean moaned, his fingertips sliding across the tip of Sam’s dick, gliding along the slit. He could smell the salty musk, the _want_ , and it made his head spin. Without a second thought, he brought his shaky fingers to his own mouth and spread the salt slick along his lips, his _tongue_ , tasting his little brother’s seed. He moaned, cock throbbing.

“You like the way my dick tastes, Dean?” Sam hummed, kissing him again.

“ _Yes_ ,” he groaned. Dean swore it was as filthy as it sounded, but it didn’t feel wicked. Didn’t feel wrong. It could never. Not when Sam was all over him, running his lips along his cheek, his _neck_ , now. Dean let his eyes close with overwhelming want, felt Sam grin against his ear, whispering filth.

“My ass tastes even better.”

“ _Jesus_ ,” he cursed, dick jerking in his pants and threatening to spill over. Because, though he’d spent countless hours imagining what licking at Sam’s dickslit would taste like, now he couldn’t get to his baby brother’s ass fast enough.

He slid his hand under Sam’s underwear, taking the briefest of instances to grab hold of Sam’s cock, to feel the weight of it in his hand, before dipping lower, tugging at his balls, rubbing at the skin underneath until _there_ … _just there_. He circled his spit-wet fingers at Sam’s hole, puckering open for him.

“I’m nice and loose,” Sam hummed, licking at Dean’s mouth, the sedatives still lingering in his system. “Please, Dean… fuck me for _real_.”

Dean’s whole body shuddered, his fingers circling Sam’s hole, dipping ever-so-slightly in and around the spongy ring. He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t find the words, what with Sam keening like he was desperate for it, his ass fucking closer, trying to get Dean to slip inside, to fill him up.

“Been saving myself for you…” whispered Sam, blinking at Dean like a doe-eyed romantic. Sweet sin and blasphemy. “Please, make me lose it. I want you to take it.”

Dean whimpered, summoning up as much restraint as he could manage. His fingertips rubbed eagerly at the edges of Sam’s hole and he blurted out in a hoarse grunt, “I ain’t fuckin’ you proper till you’re sober. You hear me?”

Sam let out a whine against Dean’s cheek, dug his teeth in a little. “Just fingers then. Please, I need it.”

“ _Slut_ ,” grunted Dean through gritted teeth, moving his two fingers to Sam’s mouth and shoving them inside. Sam sucked and moaned, slicking them good. Then, just as urgent, Dean returned those slippery fingers to Sam’s ass and pushed them up past the tight ring into the beautiful, soft pink.

The little _ahs_ and _ohs_ falling from Sam’s sweet mouth were nearly enough to push Dean over the edge, let alone the way Sam was dazedly humping him, his cock rutting against his arm and his hips bucking down to make Dean slide deeper, _deeper_.

“Good boy,” moaned Dean, watching the way Sam responded to him — his eyes closed, head thrown back and lost in the ripples of pleasure with every stroke, every slide, every press of Dean’s fingers against that cushiony spot a few inches inside.

“I’ve wanted —” Sam whimpered, rubbing himself against Dean like an animal, wet dick sliding above his waist band and against Dean’s forearm in sweet friction. “—wanted this since I was eleven.”

That was it. The anguished undoing of Dean Winchester.

Dean felt a desperate pulsing at the base of his dick, his balls tightening, and then he was coming in torrents, soaking through his boxers and jeans. The rhythm of his fingers in Sam’s ass became more erratic now, more intense, quicker and harder and _oh god, oh god_. His forearm slid against the swollen tip of Sam’s cock until little brother was whining, high-pitched and breathless, in his ear, “ _Gonna come, gonna come for you, Dean..._ ”

And he could only watch, mouth falling open, as Sam’s beautiful body stretched, his muscles shifting and ropey spurts of come painting his chest and belly. Dean fingered him relentlessly through it all, relishing that his Sammy liked it a little rough, a little sloppy. It would no doubt come in handy later. When Sam was sober. When he was ready for Dean to take everything he had protected all these years. Everything he’d _saved_ for him. The luckiest guy in the world.

But, for now, once Sam’s head had fallen back against the pillow, his body fucked out and limber, Dean quietly slipped his fingers from inside and brought them, trembling, to his lips. They smelled so perfect — sweat, earth, distinctly _male_. It made his dick twitch again, milking one last bead of cum from his tired cock. He ran his fingers along the flat of his tongue, then sucked them inside, clean and deep and _oh god_ , he could never give this up, not in a million years. One taste of little brother on his tongue and Dean Winchester was forever changed.

Sam, still a little loopy, rolled into Dean on the bed, kissing at his neck. He grinned. “I’m glad I called… So glad you saved me, Dean.”

Dean removed his fingers from his mouth and curled into Sam, finding his mouth and kissing it sweetly. “Me too, baby. Me too.”

~~~

Dean Winchester had sticky fingers.

But instead of soothing around the edges of beautiful fissures, they fastened safe and warm around Sam’s heart.


End file.
